Nothing Is Too Heavy For Love.

There are many names for it.

I call it fear.

Fear of being exposed. Seen. Known. Fear of diving deep into what lies beneath the surface of the words skimming the page. Fear of falling into the darkness and losing the light.

I feel this fear. It stalks me like a wolf slipping through the trees. Camouflaged by nature. Eyes peering out of the shadows. It follows my steps. Waiting.

I keep walking.

I do not want to stop and look for it. I want to pretend it’s not there. Not stalking me. Not waiting. I want to pretend it does not exist.

I am better than this, I tell myself.

And fear laughs. It knows better.

I want to turn around, go back, rewind time.

I want to rid my body of this urge to write, to tell the stories damning my arteries. I want to free myself from these chains.

“It’s not fear,” the voice inside my head, the one that loves me in all ways, even in my brokenness. quietly whispers. “It’s grief.”

I shrug my shoulders. dismissive. Angry. I step on a dried leaf lying on the forest floor. The crackling of its spindly spine breaking rustles in the silence.


I want to laugh. To pretend I didn’t hear the voice. I want to run deeper into the forest where the peering eyes cannot see me. I want to become a tree.  Silent. Rooted in nothing but soil and dirt.

I want to be invisible.

I can’t move.

“The river is struggling to flow free of unwritten words,” the voice whispers.

“I can’t,” I tell the voice.

“You know better.”

And I do. Know better. And I know nothing at all about this thing called grief.

“Grief is a river,” the voice whispers. Is it the trees? Is it the hawk skimming the water’s surface?

Is it the wolf?

I want to block my ears. Shut off my mind.

I open my mouth, “Damn that river.”

“You have,” the voice replies. There is no rancour in its words. no condemnation. Only patience. And love.

“It’s been a week,” I hiss.  “I’m done with this.”

“Life is never done with you. Even after your death, life carries your spirit,” the voice lovingly replies. “It is carrying your mother now.”

I sink down onto my knees. The forest floor is damp. Musty.

I gather a bunch of dead leaves in my hands. I raise them up. A priestess extending an offering to the forest goddess. To the Great Mother.

A ray of sunlight splinters through the foliage above. I release the gathered leaves from my hands. Dust motes shimmer and dance where the light finds them drifting effortlessly to the ground.

Bowed beneath the weight of that which I cannot express, I press my forehead to the earth and breathe into the darkness of its mysteries, its beauty, its light, its life and its dying nature.

“I’m tired,” I whisper to the Great Mother of this earth upon which I kneel.

“Let me carry you,” she replies.

“I’m too heavy.” The words come out as a sigh. A plaintive whisper escaping on a breath of air.

“Nothing is too heavy for Love,” the Great Mother replies.

A ghostly breath of air, soft as a feather, brushes against my skin. The leaves rustle.

I rise up from where I kneel on the forest floor.

I turn and peer into the darkness of the trees around me. I spy the wolf’s eyes watching me.

“I see you,” I say. I take a breath. “I come in peace and in grief. I come in sorrow and in fear. No matter what I carry with me, I come in Love.”

The wolf blinks his great yellow eyes and slowly lowers himself to the forest floor. I watch his eyes close. He falls effortlessly into slumber.

Life whispers through the leaves of the trees moving in the gentle breeze that stirs their branches.

Life lays silently beneath my feet where fallen leaves decay.

Life is here. So is fear. Sorrow. Decay. Grief. Joy. Gratitude. Grace.

And always, Love.

I carry on through the forest. The wolf slumbers. The trees fall silent.

The Great Mother carries my weight with loving care. The earth holds me up.



Thank you DS for your call. Your words of love and encouragement. Your beauty and honesty.

13 thoughts on “Nothing Is Too Heavy For Love.

  1. It’s only a week, but you have feelings – write them. Don’t publish them, don’t tell your readers or the whole world, but tell them to the page.

    And a week from now, write them again – the same, and more, and more.

    In a month.
    In a quarter.
    In a year.

    There will always be more – write it, save every comma. Talk about it, sure, when you are ready. Talk to people you trust, when you are ready.. Publish it to people you trust, when you are ready.

    Meanwhile, don’t forget everything else.

    Please reach out any time you want to talk.



    p.s. … on another point/issue, and perhaps you too have heard and read many things on this subject: what would you do if you knew you could not fail? AND, you have no idea how brightly you can shine if you step out from the shadows, from under the cloud …

    Liked by 1 person

    • Mark, I always appreciate your insights, and often agree. Yet I feel uncomfortable with witnessing the public coaching and advice. It feels inappropriate. Unless you have a contract with Louise for this? Coaching to me has always been between my client and myself. Contributing to a blog as a follower is not the same. Perhaps it’s time to review the coaching agreeement, and your role as a follower of Louise’s blog.
      No agenda … just bringing new perspectives 💛🙏💛

      Liked by 1 person

    • Hello Mark. I appreciate your perspective — for me, I write what is in the moment for me. Grieving is a process that requires time and my attention. I have had numerous messages and emails from others who have stated that they really appreciate my writings on grief as so many of my words are words they have not been able to express.

      I share my thoughts and words on grieving — To write myself out. Through writing it out, I find myself in different spaces. I discover what I didn’t know, or see, or feel. To touch people. To know I am not alone. To create space for the unveiling of that which we all must face. Death.

      Much gratitude. Hugs. ❤


  2. Absolutely beautiful.

    And… continue to share your written words, as you are moved to. It never ceases to ammaze me that the poems I feel most negative, small, selfish and unworthy are the ones which seem to do my readers most good.

    Sing it, sister.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Time, memories – let them be your guide on this journey through fear of the unknown, grief, self-doubt. There are many descriptors for this time of your life. Your ability to verbalize through the medium of the written word is your vehicle for this journey. We, your readers, are the recipient of those words as we support you on this journey. Put “pen to paper” whenever the urge comes to you. The outcome, as evidenced in today’s musings, so ethereal yet hauntingly positive.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Thank you dear Iwona. I can’t not write — even when it’s a double negative. 🙂 For me, this process is exactly why I write here — to shine a light on that which is often hidden, unseen, unknown in our psyches and to demonstrate through my words, the healing found in facing that which we do not want to see or know or touch.

      This piece wrote itself. I did not consciously craft the words as much as simply let them flow. I love how you describe it as ‘ethereal yet hauntingly positive’. You’ve given me the words to how I was feeling as I wrote it.

      Much love my friend.


Real conversations begin with your comments. Please share your thoughts.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.